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“Julia didn’t mention that,” he says.
Jen turns away so she doesn’t have to look at us.
“Tell us what you saw,” says Candy. She has a good instinct for this kind of work, for knowing when it’s best for a woman to ask another woman a painful question.
“It was early in the morning. It was still dark out. I couldn’t sleep, so I came by Hunter’s room to check on him and I saw that.”
She nods at the scorched symbol on the ceiling.
“You saw him making it?”
She nods.
“He was floating there over his bed, smiling like he was the happiest boy in the world. He was digging that symbol into the ceiling with his fingers. There was blood all over his arms. He looked at me and then back at the ceiling. Then his whole body convulsed like he was going to throw up. He opened his mouth and out came a jet of flame. It spread all across the ceiling. I thought it was going to burn the house down. When he stopped, all that was burned was the symbol. After that he fell onto the bed and lay there like he was asleep. That morning we went looking for someone who could help.”
K.W. squeezes her shoulder.
“It smells like coffee is ready. Would you go and bring us some?”
She nods and disappears down the hall, her arms wrapped around herself.
When she’s out of earshot K.W. says, “Hunter did take drugs. Jen doesn’t know about it. It was Hunter’s and my secret. We made a deal. I’d pay for rehab and we’d never let his mother know. After Thomas, it would have killed her.”
“What was he on?”
“Some new thing. Akira, he called it.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“I have,” says Candy. “It’s a hallucinogen. Real popular with the Sub Rosa cool kids.”
Vidocq nods.
“I’ve heard of it, too. It’s supposed to enhance a user’s psychic ability. However, Akira seems to work on anyone, so it’halo its moving out into the civilian world.”
Candy says, “A bunch of kids take it together. The high comes from being able to touch other users’ minds.”
Brilliant. Teenyboppers use condoms to fuck safe and then they bore psychic holes in their heads so that anyone or anything can get inside.
“Were you here during the exorcism?” I ask K.W.>“I knew they’d drag you in. You can’t stay away from trouble.”
“Can I help it if trouble has me on speed dial?”
“Have fun, sucker.”
“Vaya con Dios, Alfredo Garcia.”
Sola already gave Vidocq the Sentenza family’s address, so I pick him up and we head north on the Hollywood Freeway.
STUDIO CITY IS the kind of place where the poor have to settle for two-million-dollar “luxury properties” instead of mansions. The only difference between them and the genuinely rich in the hills is that they have to get by with one pool and they can’t park a 747 in their two-story living room, though they can probably squeeze in a decent-size blimp. There are fake villas with fake Roman mosaics out front and fake castles with wrought-iron gates like Henry VIII is going to stop by with guacamole for the keg party.
Lucky for everyone, the address Julia gave us belongs to a place on Coldwater Canyon Avenue with nothing but a long snaking driveway. No monarchist gates, armed guards, or a giant hermetically sealed Jetsons dome.
At the end of the drive, a gold Lexus is parked next to a clean but well-used Ford pickup. There are streaks of mud and dried cement around the truck’s wheel wells. We get out and follow a stone path to the front door. I ring the bell.
A woman opens the door a second later. She’s obviously been waiting for us. She’s about fifty and pretty, with short dark hair and a high-quality chin tuck.
“Oh,” she says, all the hope and brightness disappearing from her eyes.
